Misadventure
by wild-springflower
Summary: Never had D'Artagnan believed training to be a Musketeer would be easy, but he'd never been warned it would be all that dangerous either. "D'Artagnan starred up at the abandoned and disheveled barn, doubt marring his handsome features, wondering how this had become his life."


**A/N: Hello all! This is my first Musketeers fic and I am rather excited! This takes place sometime in the first season, after episode two for sure but prior to the series finale. I've had this in a notebook for ages now and finally decided to type it up instead of accomplishing something useful. Like sleeping. I do have another Musketeers fic all typed up, so any feedback on this one would be greatly appreciated! Just so I know if I'm doing something horribly wrong! Anywho that should be all. I hope you enjoy!**

D'Artagnan starred up at the abandoned and disheveled barn, doubt marring his handsome features, wondering how this had become his life.

"Do not be so worried D'Artagnan!" Aramis clapped his friend on the shoulder encouragingly as he walked towards the barn. Spinning on his heel he continued walking backwards with a mischievous grin on his lips. "After all, Porthos and I have both trained here and we escaped relatively unscathed."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Probably not." Porthos smiled sympathetically before following his fellow Musketeer to find a good vantage point from which to observe the fight.

"Now," Athos began matter-of-factly. "Today we work on footing as well as improvisation. There are many different obstacles available to you in a place like this, many that can be used to your advantage but equally as many that can be used against you. While we are fighting be sure you are always aware of your surroundings and try your best to use them to your advantage. He who controls the environment, controls the fight, understand? Now draw your sword."

D'Artagnan nodded to himself, softly repeating what he had been told so as to help store it within his memory. "He who controls the environment, controls the fight." With a final nod to alert Athos that he was indeed ready, the Musketeer in training drew both sword and dagger from their sheaths and the fight began.

The duel was one of fast-pace but both swordsmen appeared equally matched, however D'Artagnan had the sneaking suspicion that Athos was not fighting to his full ability. The eldest Musketeer was fighting with enough skill to ensure a challenge for his young protégé but D'Artagnan assumed the fight could be basically over whenever Athos wished.

Though D'Artagnan was loath to admit it, he knew this fight was proving to be more challenging than he had originally predicted. Never before had he fought in an environment remotely similar to the one he was in now and it most certainly was proving to be a difficulty.

Dust fell in his eyes distractingly, and each time a floor board creaked beneath his boots his heart gave a pang of fear. He attempted to ignore his physical and mental distractions but the constant murmur of his companion's commentary was proving to be most annoying.

"Oh and the young Gascon is once again backed into a corner. My dear Porthos, this fight just may prove to be too much for the boy to handle."

"I do believe you are correct Aramis. Also it does appear as if this new terrain is effecting the poor lad's fight in a most negative way."

An angry growl escaped D'Artagnan's throat as he swiped wildly at Athos' stomach. To his dismay and annoyance, Athos dodged the attack easily, a calm, almost bored expression adorning his face the entire time.

"You are not using your environment D'Artagnan." Athos chided playfully, dodging yet another uncontrolled swing.

"Perhaps I would better be able to concentrate if my every move was not being preached to our crowd of pigeons." D'Artagnan grumbled as he cast a glance towards the commentating Musketeers, simultaneously blocking a strike at his head.

"Oh dear Porthos, I do believe our little friend just told us to shut up."

"I didn't hear 'im say that."

A feigned grimace crossed Aramis' face as he shook his head sadly back and forth, "It was implied my dear fellow."

"Well that's not very kind."

"Not kind at all."

"I mean, if he's annoyed the least he could do is come out and tell it to our faces."

"That _would_ be the gentlemanly thing to do."

"Alright!" D'Artagnan shouted, interrupting the duo's fast-paced conversation and startling the nearest pigeons in the process. "You. Are. Annoying. How's that?" D'Artagnan stood with his hands outstretched looking at his two insufferable friends with an anger that would fade by the time his battle was over.

Athos saw his opponent's moment of weakness and lunged, his sword connecting with D'Artagnan's left hand, causing the young Gascon to yelp and drop the dagger he'd been holding.

"Hey!" D'Artagnan glanced between the cut on his hand which was lazily oozing blood, and his mentor with an accusing glare.

"Do not allow yourself to be distracted. In a real fight your opponent would not have just nicked your hand. There _will_ be distractions, you must learn to not allow them to distract you. Focus on the fight while also remaining aware of your surroundings."

"Right. Focus." D'Artagnan mentally scolded himself, he knew better, but Aramis and Porthos had made enticing bait and like the idiot fish, he had taken a bite. He was just lucky he would not be eaten for dinner.

The battle commenced once again and D'Artagnan was immediately faring better than he had been to begin with. At one point the young Musketeer even managed to nock dust into his mentor's eyes and was able to swipe his blade across Athos' lower calf.

Athos glanced at the small wound, fully aware D'Artagnan could have inflicted much more damage had he wished, then turned his head up lazily to regard his protégé with a curious stare.

"What?" D'Artagnan smiled mischievously. "You drew first blood!"

Athos' eyebrows raised slightly. He was pleased.

The fighting continued and the clang of metal against metal echoed all throughout the barn. It was, in all honesty, a fairly even set duel when D'Artagnan was fighting closer to his true potential. Both opponents took turns aggressing and retreating, their arms and feet moving of their own accord to block and return each attempt. The two were engaged in a dance of sorts, both attempting to take the lead when in reality the leader could only be one of them.

The duo had disappeared up a stair case, D'Artagnan backing up the creaky wood cautiously as Athos swung and lunged with his sword.

Aramis released a bored sigh as the pair vanished from his sight and he was left staring at the pallid backdrop of an old abandoned barn.

"Well that got boring real fast." Porthos commented dryly. Aramis just nodded in return. The two Musketeers knew better than to follow their comrades upstairs and so were left to sit in the recently vacated lower floor of the barn with naught but each other and the echo of battle to amuse themselves.

Aramis release a dismayed sigh, turning his shoulders to face his companion. "You wanna play some cards?"

Porthos just regarded him with a disbelieving stare, "You brought cards."

Aramis shrugged, not understanding what his friend seemed so shocked about. "Why not?" He had just reached into a pocket of his jacket when the ordinary sounds of swordplay were rudely interrupted by a loud cracking noise followed quickly by a horrid crash.

Startled pigeons raced away as a cloud of dust chased them from their once peaceful resting place. There was a moment of silence where Aramis and Porthos just glanced at each other in confusion, unsure of what exactly had transpired on the floor above them. Then there were frenzied footfalls on the stairs and Athos was shouting Aramis' name in a desperate, almost panicked way that made both the Musketeer in question and his companion pale with worry. They were both on their feet before an out of breath Athos had even reached the bottom step.

"We were fighting, the floor-" Athos shook his head, taking a deep breath, "It just gave way. D'Artagnan fell through."

The trio dashed to the area directly beneath where Athos and the boy had been sparring but the sight had all three halting in their tracks.

There was a large hole in the ceiling where a sturdy wooden floor had been once upon a time. The small storage area beneath was filled with old metal tools, rusted and dusty from years of neglect and disuse. D'Artagnan lay absolutely still in the middle of all the chaos, long dark hair splayed out wildly.

"Oh mon dieu." Aramis whispered before rushing forward to attempt to aid their fallen friend.

Upon closer inspection Aramis noted the blood on the ground beneath D'Artagnan's raven hair, a head wound being the most likely culprit for their friend's unresponsive state. His left arm was extended awkwardly beneath him and the same knee was bent grotesquely out of place. He'd fallen hard on his left side then. Aramis breathed a word of thanks to God when inspection of the boy's ribs yielded no signs of damage and no rusted metal was found close enough for the boy to have cut himself on in the fall.

"Well?" Porthos asked anxiously, him and Athos both standing off to the side while the doctor among them went to work.

"His left arm is broken and the same knee is dislocated. I am most worried about his apparent head wound, but aside from that and some bruising our little Gascon appears to have been lucky in his fall. He landed away from the tools and his ribs feel intact. His arm will have to be set and his knee will be sore for quite some time but as long as no complications arise due to the head wound, I expect him to make a full recovery."

Both Musketeers released a sigh of relief before Porthos scooped their injured friend into his strong arms and followed Athos out to the horses, Aramis hovering close by the entire way.

It was upon unspoken agreement that D'Artagnan would make the short ride back to Paris on Athos' horse, his own being led beside Porthos.

Athos usually prided himself in his ability to trap and conceal his own emotions deep inside the dark abyss of his mind where no one else could see them, but he found in that particular moment he was having a very difficult time keeping all his emotions locked away.

He was angry. He didn't really know at who or what but there was a deep fire fueled by rage blazing behind brilliant blue eyes. His usually steady hands were ravaged with worry, twisting nervous knots in the reigns he was grasping with white knuckles. A suffocating guilt felt as if it was literally crushing his heart, beating the life out of his head, which felt as if it were being sliced apart right through the middle. Because on the one hand Athos knew the only emotion he should have been feeling was worry, but on the other hand he had no control over what emotions he was feeling and that realization just ended up aggravating the Musketeer even further.

A scenery that Athos knew D'Artagnan would have enjoyed raced past him but he paid it absolutely no mind. He had eyes only for the looming buildings of the very outskirts of Paris, steadily growing larger as they neared the city. The buildings, and the boy in his arms. Those were virtually the only things that mattered to Athos at that very moment.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, but in reality was no longer than an hour, the three Musketeers and their wounded companion reached Parisian streets. For what was probably the first and would almost certainly be the only time, Athos found himself pleased at the Garrisons otherwise inconvenient location so near the outside of town.

The four horses burst through the entrance and into the little square, grasping the attention of all Musketeers within earshot. A naturally curious bunch, they almost instantly began to hoard around the men but one glare from Porthos ensure the three and their injured youngest were given a very wide berth.

Upon seeing the commotion outside, Traville burst from his office and rather dramatically demanded to know what was happening.

Athos had just assisted to delicately lower D'Artagnan's unconscious form into Porthos' strong grasp and was really not in the mood to deal with anyone, especially not an enraged Traville. "Training accident." Was the only explanation he offered before following Aramis' hurried form up the steps to the medical rooms. He may have barked an order at one of the stable boys but Athos honestly didn't remember.

Porthos literally kicked the door open when the Musketeer he'd asked to open it for him took too long to respond, sweeping inside the room and placing D'Artagnan on the vacated bed with a delicacy that seemed nearly impossible for one so large to possess.

Aramis wasted no time settling beside the bed to begin treating their injured friend while awaiting the arrival of water he knew was on its way without a request. First the doctor made quick work of the dislocated knee. The joint was forcibly pulled back into place with a near deafening crack but to his utter dismay the Gascon did not even flinch. "This will require stiches." Aramis called over his shoulder as he inspected the large wound adorning the side of D'Artagnan's head, a steady flow of blood staining the bed and coating his hands.

A medical kit and a clean bucket of water was placed beside him and Aramis wasted no time beginning to mend the young Musketeer.

As Aramis settled into the steady rhythm of sewing and sterilizing the wound, Porthos and Athos drifted back towards the wall, enough distance between themselves and the bed that they were out of the way but not so much that they could not be there should Aramis require any sort of assistance.

For the first time since he had witnessed D'Artagnan fall through the floor, Athos felt as if he could breath. Aramis was a very capable doctor; D'Artagnan was in good hands. With a deep sigh the eldest Musketeers' body sagged to the floor, attempting but not quite succeeding in keeping his breathing under control.

Porthos kneeled down beside him, butt resting on his heals as he regarded his leader with a look of sympathy that was not quite as masked as he'd intended it to be. "It wasn't your fault." He barley whispered.

Athos released a solitary disbelieving laugh in reply, his eyes never leaving D'Artagnan's prone form.

It was late into the night and many-a candle had been lit to illuminate the small room before Aramis set down the medical tools and began whispering softly over D'Artagnan's sleeping form.

"Well?" Porthos questioned, though he knew his demand would not be graced with a response until his friend had finished his prayer.

Aramis made the sign of the cross over D'Artagnan's body, bringing his two fingers to his mouth before placing them softly to the slumbering boy's forehead. "Amen." He whispered before turning and regarding his companions with a wary stare. "It's too early to say whether or not he will make a full recovery. I would love to say yes with all he confidence in the world because this is D'Artagnan and he possess a stubbornness that could rival Athos' one a good day, but head wounds are tricky and you cannot always tell."

The other two occupants in the room nodded solemnly, they'd dealt with head wounds before and they understood the dangers of a serious one. With heavy hearts they each chose a place where they would sleep for the night, none of them wanting to leave their Gascon but each of them aware they had to get some rest before they fell flat on their faces.

Porthos, always the protector, chose a sport very near the door where he could survey the entire room but also act as a barricade against any unwanted visitors.

Aramis, the poor exhausted man, brushed all his medical supplies from the table along the back wall and sprawled across the sturdy oak.

Athos dragged the solitary chair over to the side of the bed and leaned over so he was partially lying on the mattress, his head just barely making contact with D'Artagnan's unmoving hand. Athos knew his back would attack with a vengeance the following morning but he honestly couldn't bring himself to care.

The candles burned and the night stretched on as the four friends dozed, finding comfort in one another's presence.

It was in the very early hours of daybreak, when the creatures of the night were just slithering back to whatever holes they had crawled out of the night before when Athos blinked awake.

The Musketeer was unsure at first why he had awoken. He remained silent for a moment, unmoving, just listening, but he couldn't hear a sound.

Just before he could fall back asleep though he felt a slight rustle in his hair and heard a sharp sigh from the bed.

Literally holding his breath Athos waited, heart pounding painfully in his chest as he awaited proof that he was not dreaming. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it came.

"'Thos?" It was a weak croak and the voice held none of the normal strength or confidence Athos had grown accustomed to hearing but there was no mistaking it.

His head snapped up and disbelieving blue touched confused brown as their eyes met. Athos couldn't help the smile that ghosted across his lips as he whispered his companion's name, his voice sounding almost foreign to his own ears after so many hours of silence.

The boy looked around in confusion and Athos could tell he was not really aware of what was going on. "'Thos, wha-? M'head." D'Artagnan grimaced, staring pleadingly up at Athos for answers.

"Your head will be sore for quite a while I'm afraid. You see, you have what's called a concussions."

By the way his eyebrows forked downwards, Athos could tell D'Artagnan didn't really understand and simply trying to seemed to be taking far more energy than it was worth.

"Sleep D'Artagnan. Rest with the reassurance that your friends are nearby and come tomorrow everything will be explained."

D'Artagnan nodded softly, his chocolate eyes sinking behind olive skin as he drifted back to sleep, taking comfort in the fact that he was not alone.

The sun was high in the sky and the Garrison was bursting with activity before D'Artagnan awoke a second time.

Aramis was sitting peacefully, starring out the window at the Musketeers before him without any sort of vested interest.

A soft moan stole his attention from the sword fight taking place in the yard to his friend on the bed.

D'Artagnan moaned again, lazy hand snaking out from under the covers to rub at groggy eyes.

Aramis had crossed the small space between himself and the bed in a matter of seconds and stood by the headboard, tender smile reserved only for people he truly cared about lighting up his face. "Hey."

"Hey." D'Artagnan replied, grimacing at the sound of his own voice. "What happened?"

Aramis poured a glass of water and helped D'Artagnan to drink from it before he perched gingerly on the side of the bed. "What do you remember?"

"Um, we were practicing. In that God-awful barn."

Aramis smiled at the comment, "Yes. Anything else?"

D'Artagnan's face scrunched up as he attempted to remember the events of the day prior, "Athos and I were fighting, the stairs and the floor, everything creaked and groaned." Suddenly D'Artagnan's face paled and his wide eyes darted up to Aramis frantically. "The floor! Was anyone hurt? It just-"

"Woah slow down there D'Artagnan. Everyone else is fine."

Aramis' words gave D'Artagnan pause. "Everyone _else_. What happened to me?"

"You uh, fell through the floor."

D'Artagnan blinked a few times in shock, his head coked slightly to the right. "I what?"

"You don't remember?"

"I know the floor caved in, but I don't remember falling through. Is that weird?"

"It is only to be expected." Aramis leaned forward then, his own face moving steadily closer to D'Artagnan's almost to the point the young Musketeer believed Aramis was going to kiss him.

He must have flinched away because Aramis was chuckling to himself and telling him to hold still. "Mind out of the sewers." He chided. "I need to inspect your eyes, that is all."

"My eyes, why?"

"Because you fell through the floor and gave yourself a concussion."

"Well it's not as if I did it on purpose." D'Artagnan huffed indignantly.

Aramis released an amused snort but otherwise remained silent.

"Hey, you cannot blame me for this!"

"Oh yes I can."

"The floor gave out, it was an accident."

"Ah yes, there is that. It is not as if you physically caused the floor to cave in. It's more like, your mere presence is to blame."

"My presence?" D'Artagnan asked in disbelief.

"You my friend, are cursed."

"Cursed." D'Artagnan echoed.

"Mmhmm. With bad luck." Aramis nodded with a grin.

D'Artagnan laughed disbelievingly. "I am _not_ cursed."

"Years." Aramis sat back from the bed and fixed his young friend with a pointed stare. "Athos, Porthos, and I have gone to that barn and trained without incident for _years_. And then you get there and you are not even able to finish a single fight before something goes wrong!"

"And instead of coming to a rational conclusion such as: the floor, which was wearing thin thanks to continued abuse and absolutely no upkeep just gave out, you are set on the crazy idea that I am cursed."

"Now see, it would be crazy," An excited smile overtook Aramis' features and it told D'Artagnan tales of way too much thinking and far too little sleep. " _Would_ be. Except not when one inspects your history. Because not only were you the one to fall through the floor, but this is not the first time misfortune has befallen you."

D'Artagnan scoffed with a role of his eyes. "Name another."

"Vadim." Aramis replied immediately, looking smug. "That mysterious lady friend of yours who left you to take the blame for murder. Need I say more?"

"Okay, okay! So I've run into a bit of back luck recently."

"A bit?"

"You know, I believe my biggest misfortune was meeting you and your two lunatic friends!"

"How so?"

"Everything bad, or unlucky that has happened to me can be traced back to one, if not all three of you."

"Not the incident with your lady friend!" Aramis countered, crossing his arms over his chest triumphantly.

"Oh okay, so one incident out of the numerous you could have named. You know what? I am cursed. Cursed with the friendship of the craziest Musketeers in the entire regiment."

The two stared at each other coldly for a moment before smiles cracked their very serious expressions and they were laughing.

A loud yelp ruined the playful moment as D'Artagnan attempted to shift his position and ended up jostling his injured arm.

Aramis winced sympathetically. "Do be careful, your arm was broken in the fall."

With that the once teasing atmosphere turned serious. "How bad was it?" D'Artagnan stared intently at Aramis, his determined gaze never leaving the other Musketeer's somber face.

"Honestly? You were very lucky. You fell into a room filled with tools that looked as if they hadn't been used since before Louis' father was king."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened in alarm but Aramis was quick to amend his mistake. "You were not cut by any of them! You need not worry about infection."

With a sigh of relief D'Artagnan's body sagged further into the mattress. "What else?"

"Your knee will be sore for a while but there's no lasting damage. And that just leaves your head. Honestly I never believed it was right to begin with so no worries there."

With a speed graced to only a few Aramis dodged the cup that was thrown at him and the liquid, along with the wood, ended up colliding with Porthos, who had just walked in the door.

The room was engulfed in silence as both men on the bed stared at the water dripping down Porthos' deathly calm face.

"Um, sorry?" D'Artagnan squeaked with a nervous laugh.

Porthos growled softly, but it was one of defeat. "You are lucky you're injured Gascon, otherwise there'd be hell to pay for this."

"Please, even injured as I am I could still best you in a fight!"

"That's big talk for someone lying in a bed."

"Aramis said I was not even injured that badly."

"Not exactly." Aramis interjected quietly, but D'Artagnan ignored the comment.

"How about we go down to the yard and settle this right now?"

"Still injured from one fight and already begging for another." Athos' voice was neither accusatory nor disapproving. "That is either bravery or idiocy, perhaps a combination of the two."

"Athos."

The young Musketeer stared at his mentor as the room fell into silence once again, before Aramis coughed loudly and stood, long stride already heading for the door. "Well I'm gonna go get some breakfast. Porthos, care to accompany me?"

"I can always go for something to eat." And with that the two left, leaving the other half of their strange quartet to sort out their issues.

"Um. I'm uh, glad you are okay." D'Artagnan stuttered with a nervous smile, eyes darting about the tiny room.

"And I you." Athos replied sincerely before broaching the subject that had been bothering him since the accident. "Listen, D'Artagnan, I just, well I wish to convey-"

"No." D'Artagnan interjected with conviction, hesitant but determined eyes finally meeting the eldest Musketeers'. "You don't get to apologize."

"D'Artagnan-"

"No! What happened was not your fault, therefore you do not get to apologize for it."

"D'Artagnan, you were only in the godforsaken barn because I told you to be there. You would be about and well right now were it not for me."

"Athos, you had no way of knowing that his would happen. Unless of course this was all one evil plot and you, I don't know, snuck out to the barn before our fight, loosened the floor boards and ensured that I would stand in exactly the right place so that I would fall through. I mean, if you had done _that_ then I wouldn't let you hear the end of it, you'd be buying me breakfast for a month. You didn't do that, did you?"

"What? No, _no_." Athos sounded affronted at the very idea of purposefully causing harm to one of his teammates.

"Then it is settled. You can still buy me breakfast this morning though, I'm _starving_!"

"I am not buying you breakfast." Athos replied, voice completely deadpan.

"Can you do me a different favor then?"

Something in the way the boy asked it had Athos immediately on guard. "What?" He questioned, regarding D'Artagnan with a suspicious glare.

"Bust me outta here?"

"No." Athos huffed in disbelief, the kid was worse than _he_ was. "D'Artagnan you are on strict bed rest until Aramis says otherwise."

A dismayed sigh escaped the young Gascon's lips and the fingers of his good hand kneaded the blanked in his lap into a rumpled mess. Wide brown eyes blinked up at Athos and the Musketeer's heart took a swan dive towards the pit of his stomach. "I mean, you _were_ the one who suggested we train there."

The jab was quiet and timed so that it stabbed his still falling heart and twisted it painfully. That, mixed with his prior guilt over the whole scenario probably would have been enough to break him but then D'Artagnan was giving him the 'wounded puppy' stare and damn if he could ever resist that.

A defeated sigh escaped his lips and D'Artagnan knew he had won before a confirmation could even be uttered. "Fine."

A smile that rivaled the sun lip up D'Artagnan's face and it was then that Athos decided helping the boy sneak out far outweighed any consequence he may have to face. As long as D'Artagnan was still breathing and smiling, it was completely worth the risk.


End file.
